


Modern Romance

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Casual Alcoholism, Homelessness, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:43:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm so fucking sick of John Mayer," Nathan says moodily, staring at the can in his hands.  "So fucking sick.  Him and James Blunt can go fuck themselves."</p>
<p>AKA: the usual coffeeshop au where nathan works as a barista too big for his apron, pickles is basically randal graves and toki is just a broke homeless kid from norway trying to make music, because what else are you gonna do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kettugasm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kettugasm/gifts).



> I'M BAFFLED by the lack of dumb aus in this fandom so i'm writing this now because... idk look I JUST LIKE DUMB CHARACTERS. mostly a character study at this point, but i think there's kind of like a romance plotline that's going on so that'll be fun right???
> 
> anyway, this is all for fun and will be updated whenever i feel like i've got enough to post :> i hope u enjoy this very silly thing that exists now
> 
> DEDICATED to my roommate kit, who basically gave me the entire outline of the story so that all i had to do was fill in the details

            The weird kid with the beat up Fender is starting to fog up the glass of the pastry case with the way he's breathing. Even though Nathan knows he's going to be the one to clean the glass, he lets him stare and breathe and fog shit up; it's slow enough that he's not backing up a line, and he looks like he's seriously debating the merits of danishes versus scones, which is an important distinction that apparently needs a lot of thought. Nathan doesn't get it, but whatever. He's the one behind the counter, not in front of it.

            Instead of trying to rush him, Nathan just sticks to cleaning the espresso machine, taking the lack of customers as a perfect opportunity to get a feel for it. He's trying to be more on point at work; Ofdensen had gently suggested he learn the ins and outs of their newest machine, and even though Nathan knows he was basically saying, "You're too slow," it didn't feel condescending, so he's actually, you know, trying. Besides, he intimidates too many of his coworkers with his huge stature and dour glare - most of them aren't willing to get near enough to him to do the actual important shit that needs to be done. They're stupid, basically.

            It isn't as though he _tries_ to intimidate them, either; if that were the case, he'd be more pleased with their reactions. He's just... bigger than them, older than them, and everyone knows he'll throw down if he needs to, and he listens to death metal on his breaks instead of the indie crooners that play 24/7 over the in-shop speakers like the rest of them. He's tried to be gentle around them, but he's just... _not_ a gentle person. Speaking softly for him is a growl; raising his voice leaves him snarling or shouting loud enough to rattle cups, and... yeah. It can make work difficult. He's pretty sure the only reason he still has this job is because Ofdensen, for some fucked up reason, likes him and wants to keep him around.

            The kid is trying to catch his eye, but Nathan's been too distracted with his own thoughts to notice it until he hears him clear his throat. He jerks like he's stepped into a bear trap, and tries to not accidentally glare as he looks over and sees a fistful of singles in the kid's hand. "Uh," he says. "Sorry."

            He watches the kid's eyes as they dart towards his money before he realizes how _big_ Nathan is, looking up like he's making sure his eyes aren't playing tricks. Nathan's seen it more than once - customers always somehow miscalculating their perception of his size and it throws them for a loop to realize there's such a thing as a coffeehouse employee too big for their apron.

            "Oh, no's," he says, and _damn_ is that a fucking accent, "It's okays!" He smiles big and stupid, and Nathan guesses he bounces back quick. "I ams readies to order." Even as he says it, he's glancing back down to flip out the exact change, briefly glancing up at one point to tell him, "One blues-berry scone, _vær og takk_."

            "...Right." That was a word that definitely meant something to someone. He reluctantly hunches his back as he grabs a scone, feeling a little _too_ aware of how oversized he is for this dead end job as the kid looks up from his money and watches him like he's making sure he doesn't skimp on the pastry. It's really weird to have a hawk eye focused on his actions when most people try to avoid staring. As he drops the bag onto the counter, he grunts, "That's two-seventy."

            The kid puts three dollars in his hand and takes the bag. When he gets the change back, he puts the quarter into the tip jar and smiles courteously, which is - not _unusual_ , but the way he does it, without batting an eye at having to tilt his chin to meet Nathan's eyes, still manages to throw him for a loop.

            "Thanks," he says, mostly for the tip, and he watches after the kid as he plops down at one of the tables and picks at the scone as though he's planning on relishing it for an hour or two.

            Nathan honestly shouldn't be all that surprised that weird fuckers are coming into the shop - it's pretty much normal for this fucking bizarre town. There's the tall, pale blonde guy who always wears sunglasses, looking like some kind of Anne Rice protagonist brought to life, and there's the pimple-faced idiots who come in to use the free wifi to update their bandom blogs, and the fatass mall cop that likes to lurk around outside and give people weird looks despite not actually _working_ in this complex -

            But for some reason, the skinny kid with broken English, ripped up jeans and a beaten up guitar is catching his attention. He figures it must be because he's been looking for a guitarist - he doubts this kid can keep up with Pickles' drums on that piece of shit of his, but he can't help but wonder. Is he any good? What can he play on that grandpa guitar that isn't Wonderwall, or whatever the German equivalent is?

            He realizes he's staring and immediately returns to the espresso machine. It doesn't matter, because he's not going to actually bother to _ask_ or anything. Fuck talking to some asshole backpacker. He doesn't need to know.

            "Does you have the cups for waters?"

            Nathan clips his thumb against the machine and growls out a couple expletives as he turns; the kid is standing at the counter again, but now he looks intimidated. Even from here, Nathan can see how his weight shifts as he slides one foot back half an inch. He should say something dark and brutal to get him out of here so Nathan can actually bitch and complain without people seeing.

            All that comes out is, "Sorry."

            "Are yous okays?" The intimidation fishtails wildly into concern and he leans into the counter like he can see the swelling. "Waters ams best for that's, you knows."

            "I _know_ ," Nathan grits, and then he gives up, muttering dark things like _fucking machine, I'll fucking kill you, just wait, owww **fuck** , I've already got a hangnail, **damn it**_ , shoving his thumb under the sink's cold water before reaching out with his free hand to snag one of the employee cups. He's not supposed to give out free water - some bullshit company policy that he doesn't understand - but right now he doesn't give a fuck, filling it from the tap before handing it over.

            "Thanks!" the kid grins, and he goes back to his chair long enough to pick up the leftover half of his pastry and his guitar. Nathan wraps a rag around his thumb and watches as he leaves, trying to make sense of the sign taped to his guitar as he heads back out the doors. He thinks it's written in German or something.

            Though he's till trying to anagram the shit out of the sign when it starts to get busy about ten minutes later, he has to give up and work on handling the start of the afternoon rush without anyone else around. It doesn't take long before he forgets about it entirely, though he's got a shitty German song stuck in his head for the rest of the day.

* * *

 

            Pickles taps his fingers against the steering wheel as they sit in the parking lot after work, a pack of beer in the passenger footspace and Nathan sprawled in the seat next to him, his feet up on the dash and the seat pushed all the way back. Pickles occasionally smacks his door with the back of his hand, like a weird mental tick, tapping and smacking in quick rhythm. Nathan used to think it was just some weird thing he did because he was constantly fucked up, but then he'd found out he played the drums and it had made perfect sense. It's the same thing he does when he starts thinking up lyrics for songs about vikings and gore and ancient demons; even now, he's got a pad of paper in his back pocket that's full of some pretty metal lines that are going nowhere.

            "I'm so fucking sick of John Mayer," Nathan says moodily, staring at the can in his hands. "So fucking sick. Him and James Blunt can go fuck themselves."

            "Man, be fuckin' grateful," Pickles grouses, "I gotta listen t'fuckin' _muzak_. Do you know what that shit is? It's the kinda so-called- _music_ they use t' _torture_ people." He gulps down his second beer of the post-work binge and crushes the can between his hands. "One'a these days, I'm gonna just _snap_ , Nate, an' it's gonna be _brutal_. I've been fantasizin' about shovin' some greasy teenager's face inta the hot dog cooker fer _months._ When it happens, tell 'em it was the fuckin' muzak that did it."

            "I'll trade you," Nathan insists, "You don't know hell until you've heard _c'mon skinny love_..." Thirteen times in an hour, he means to add, but Pickles is laughing too loudly at his attempt to copy at least the beat of the lyric for him to make himself heard.

            " _Please_ ," he gasps, "Stick t'metal, dude."

            "You first," Nathan growls, shoving Pickles before tossing his can into the back seat, leaning forward to pull out a couple more for them. " _You're_ supposed to be putting the drum pattern together for Skinwalker. Haven't heard _shit_."

            "Ya don't even have the _lyrics_ done, shut the fuck up."

            There's quiet between them for a minute; Nathan's not sure if Pickles is thinking about how totally fucking fake they are, since they use fucking loops for everything but the drums and vocals, and how they aren't actually a band so talking about making songs is _pointless_ , but that's where his own thoughts go.

            "I got it up here," Pickles says finally, pointing at his head. "Just gotta sit down an' play it."

            "Yeah?" Nathan turns his head to look at Pickles, who is staring at his hands like he's surprised he doesn't already have his sticks. They aren't a real band, and Nathan knows that, but he still can't help but crank his seat back up.

            "Wanna go do that now?"

            Pickles grins at him and twists the key in the ignition. "Fuck yeah."

            He cranks the classic rock up on the radio, and they both bitch about how classic rock shouldn't include _eighties rock_ , because fuck you, it's not _classic_ yet - Pickles more than Nathan, for a whole list of reasons - and are just honestly thankful to listen to anything other than the respective music of their individual workplace hells. Nathan keeps his legs bent to hide the open case of beer on the floor beneath him, and when Pickles rolls down the windows to have a cigarette, Nathan leans his arm on the edge and stares at the passing cars, wondering if there are any other people around them that have a fake band too.

            They pull up on a yellow light and Pickles huffs and waits; there's a camera and a no-right-on-red sign and he's not stupid by a longshot. It's because they're forced to wait that Nathan has time to hone in on the guy on the corner across from them, bouncing back and forth as a couple people watch him playing an impromptu guitar session on the street. It only gets his attention because people are really fucking picky, and they don't stop on the street during happy hour for just any jackoff.

            "Dude, that's the weird German guy," he says, pointing.

            "Who?"

            "Uh, some German kid came into the shop." He points again, "I think that's him."

            "Must be doin' it fer fun," Pickles drawls as the light turns green. They round the corner and Nathan only glances back once before settling back into his seat. "Nobody _that_ broke would buy from _your_ overpriced ass."

            "Yeah, fucking tell me about it. _I'm_ too fucking broke to buy from me."

            Pickles lives in an apartment complex that leans far into the empty side of things - people move in and out of the glorified halfway housing within months, but Pickles has been living there since Nathan met him. He says it's because nobody fucks with him when he plays his drums, but Nathan's pretty sure it's because it's rent controlled and cheap as shit. Whatever once-upon-a-time fame Pickles had clearly hasn't left him with a lot of cash to live comfortably.

            Whatever, who even knows what comfortable is until they're surrounded by liquor and weed and a jury rigged surround sound system that can shake the fucking foundation? Nobody Nathan wants to know, that's for fucking sure.

            They polish off the beer and watch stolen cable for a couple hours, sharing a spliff and another sixpack; Pickles disappears into his bathroom for one of those hours, leaving Nathan to watch COPS reruns while Pickles knocks shit over and swears and does a couple lines of coke before bursting through the door, one drumstick somehow already in hand. " _Alright,_ dude, it's fuckin' time to _rock_ ," he announces, and Nathan waits until he hears flailing start-up beats before he climbs out of the threadbare recliner and wanders after his errant drummer.

            Pickles has studio quality recording equipment, most of it straight off the back of a truck and some of it straight from the late 80's, and they wind up recording absolute bullshit for three hours, until the coffee machine comes on at three in the morning and they break to get some caffeine. Nathan has work in four hours and Pickles is due back in five, so they drink a pot of coffee between them and smoke another bowl, and Pickles doesn't bother going into the bathroom to take another bump of cocaine.

            Nathan passes out for two hours and wakes with a start with Pickles half laying on him, both hands on his shoulders as he gives him little shakes. "Nate," he says, " _Nate_ ," and Nathan shoves him off and groans as his back pops.

            " _What_ ," he snarls - Pickles is used to the fact that he sleeps like a log and doesn't even blink at the hostility, just frowns up at him from where he's slumped on the floor.

            "We gotta go to _work_ ," he says, with the gravitas of announcing the death of happiness itself. Nathan groans and debates saying _fuck it_ , to smoking and drinking some more and passing out, but Pickles is getting ready and throwing extra clothes at Nathan.

            "So fucking gay," Nathan grumbles as he changes in the living room; Pickles doesn't have to ask what he's talking about, because they both know Nathan having his own drawer in the beat up dresser is _pretty fucking gay_. "I'm taking all of it home," he says, for the fifth time in a year.

            "Yeah fuckin' right."

            "Seriously, your fucking detergent sucks. It smells like shit."

            "Well, _excuse_ me for not buyin' fuckin' _Gain_ , ya goddamn princess."

            Pickles drives like a maniac to get Nathan back to work on time and he still shows up fifteen minutes late. The girl who opened shoots him a _look_ , but is too chickenshit to call him out on it, so he just takes over the machine and pretends that she isn't suddenly on her guard. Man, fuck hipsters.

            The blonde vampire comes in around a quarter to ten, just when Nathan's hangover is reaching terrible new heights. Thankfully, he's not the one at the register, so he doesn't have to deal with the stilted accent and the way he looks down his long nose while he orders. As usual, he goes and sits in the corner, next to the window out to the sidewalk; it's the usual place for people who are trying to be noticed, even though nobody knows or gives a shit about them. They could be a rotting corpse and nobody would look twice. It would just be that douchebag corpse in the corner, stinking the place up, buying one latte and then just decomposing and taking up a seat for the rest of the business day.

            He has a Macbook Pro. What a _tool_.

            With two hours of sleep and an endless supply of coffee, Nathan manages to survive until lunch. The blonde is still sitting there as Pickles pushes his way through the doors, tapping his fingers double-time against the tables as he passes them; his sunglasses slip down his nose just enough so anyone could see he's watching Pickles. It's stupid.

            The lunch rush is just picking up, so Pickles makes himself a fixture in front of the pastry bar, making every effort to block anyone else who tries to get a good look at the selection. He's a pain in the ass for customers, but it makes Nathan's day to see old ladies and college co-eds struggling to look around a tiny ginger fuck just to see how much a bagel costs. His coworker doesn't seem to even notice, too busy with the cash register to deal with their bullshit.

            "Any time would be good," the guy by the pick-up bar sighs; he's been waiting for his iced cinnamon latte for just over a minute, so Nathan fixes him with a glare and purposefully pours the espresso he'd managed to wrangle from the machine into the sink without breaking eye contact. He's hungover, exhausted, and in _no mood_ to deal with hipster jackoffs, and just because he doesn't normally _mean_ to be intimidating doesn't mean he _can't_ be when he wants.

            The guy backs down, appropriately cowed, and Nathan makes his drink in under a minute and drops it heavily on the counter. "Order up," he growls, and the guy grabs it and bolts like he's afraid of getting the shit beaten out of him. As if he'd be worth the effort.

            Since he's going to miss his break with Pickles if he doesn't leave now, Nathan takes off his apron and rounds the counter, lurching towards the door when Pickles smacks his back. They don't need to communicate for Pickles to know Nathan's going into autopilot.

            Nathan eats a sub from the convenience shop while Pickles mostly chain smokes beside him, taking bites out of Nathan's sandwich every so often. He doesn't even listen to Nathan's warning sounds, and Nathan doesn't actually care, but it's an unconscious thing from having kids picking at his lunch in elementary school every day. He's not _bad_ at sharing, but it's _his_ food, you know?

            "Hey," Pickles says around a mouthful of lunch meat, pointing across the lot at Duncan Hills. "Lestat's getting' yelled at. Gotta give him credit, dude, ya can _definitely_ see him from that seat."

            Nathan looks and sees that the blonde jerkoff is getting gestured at by the same guitar-wielding German kid from the day before. "Wonder what he's doing," Nathan mutters; nobody's really ever bothered the guy before, though the fatass mall cop sometimes stares at him from the lot. It's a weird thing.

            Pickles is right though. You can see him all the way across the lot. Fucking asshole corpse.

            The kid's gestures start to slow and Nathan can see him deflating like a slashed tire from all the way over here. Whatever the blonde guy's saying, it's messing him up, and by the time they're done talking, the kid's slinking out of the store like a kicked dog. He's got his shoulders slumped and if there was a can, he'd probably be kicking it.

            "Damn," Pickles says.

            "Brutal," Nathan agrees.

            "Aw, man, I can't stand seein' a kicked dog," Pickles sighs, and then he cups a hand to his mouth and hollers. "Hey, Fender bender! Uhh, Fu Manchu!" He lifts his arm up and waves when the kid looks in their way. Nathan hunches down and lets his hair cover his face like it'll keep him from being seen. He really doesn't like the way Pickles goes at things, all... enthusiastically. He's never been an extrovert and it's kind of a miracle that he's friends with a guy who literally cannot _stop_ interacting with people.

            " _Hey_ ," Pickles continues when the kid gets closer; Nathan peeks out from his hair to see him looking at the two of them in confusion. "What's yer name?"

            "My... names?"

            Pickles grins and elbows Nathan like he's onto something big. He's not. It's just a _name_. "Yeah, dude, what's yer name?"

            "...Toki," the kid says slowly, coming to a stop at the curbside.

            "Toki?" Pickles elbows him again, ignoring the way Nathan smacks at him. "Awright, Toki, well, _I'm_ Pickles, an' _this_ is Nathan. You play guitar, huh?"

            Toki perks up for a moment, and Nathan watches as he almost reaches a smile before his shoulders slump and he falls back into dejection.

            "I ams... not so goods at it," he admits slowly.

            "Is that what he said?" Nathan asks, his voice mostly monotonous, and Toki jerks briefly in surprise before looking over his shoulder at the Hills. The blonde vampire motherfucker is looking at his laptop.

            "Who is that douchebag, anyway?" Pickles adds, like the cheap, entertainment-seeking gossip he honestly fucking is.

            "Oh - he ams... He ams a celebrities from Sweden."

            "Seriously?"

            When Toki nods, Nathan pushes his hair back behind his ear and tries to get a sharper view of the blonde in the window. "He was ams in multiples bands - I hads, um, was a bigs fans, whens I lived in Norway."

            "Norway," Nathan mutters. Neither of them act like they heard him. He thinks Toki might be looking at him, but he realizes he's more or less staring at the half eaten sandwich in his hands, all but licking his lips. When he holds it out, he's met with twin surprised looks; Nathan darts his eyes to Pickles before ducking his head again, unwilling to deal with the whole _aw, Nathan, are you trying to make friends?_ eyebrow waggle he's doing. "I'm done with it," he mutters.

            "Thanks!" Toki says, and Nathan doesn't look up until he takes the sandwich and starts digging in.

            "So, he's some famous jackoff in Europe," Pickles drawls, dropping one cigarette to the ground and lighting another in the same move, "Big fuckin' deal. No wonder he acts like such a fuckin' prima donna. Sittin' in that fuckin' window, all hoity-toity, holier-than-thou. Like anyone gives a fuck about _European_ celebrities."

            Toki tries to argue, but he's got a mouth full of bread and no leg to stand on, so he just pouts around the sandwich and chews. "Anyways, I didn'ts know he was ams going to schools here, and whens I saws him - ugh." He shakes his head in frustration. " _Mine foreldre_ _hadde rett_."

            Neither of them bother to ask what the fuck that meant - though Nathan now clearly recognizes it as Norwegian - and instead they just cast twin dour looks at the guy in the window. "Well, _I_ haven't heard ya play yet," Pickles says.

            "Me neither," Nathan grunts.

            "I woulds plays something," Toki says slowly, chewing, "Buts my e-strings brokes last nights and I don'ts have the replacement yets."

            "What kind of music do you play."

            Nathan knows from Pickles' side-eye that maybe he should start inflecting more, but Toki just rocks on his heels and licks his fingers clean.

            "Ums, mostlies just acousticals, classics rocks, somes of the things yous hear all days, I bets!"

            "You ever play any metal?" Pickles asks.

            "Oooh, _ja_ , _ja_. Nots so much," he amends, "It's ams harder whens you don'ts haves an electrical guitars, but..." He holds his hands up and grins wide, all stupid like before, and says, "I ams norsk. We's ams the foundations of metals."

            Pickles chuckles and claps a hand on Nathan's shoulder; Nathan, for his part, just avoids any and all direct eye-contact. "Shit, dude, yanno what I call this? Fuckin' _seer-an-dippity_. You should come an' hang with us some time, kiddo, we could probably make ya useful."

            Toki looks briefly concerned, and Nathan grumbles, "We have a band." Which isn't true, strictly speaking, but it's what Pickles would say. "We need a guitarist."

            "Likes I says - I'm nots so goods."

            "Eh, fuck it." Pickles waves his hands, sticking his cigarette between his teeth. "Who gives a shit if yer _good_ or not, anythin' is better'n nothin'. Right, Nate?"

            Nathan looks at Toki through his hair, watching him as he looks from Pickles to him and back again with a dazed expression. He looks like he's never been asked to hang out with anyone before. Nathan can distinctly remember what that felt like.

            "Yeah," he says after a long minute. "It's... fun. It'll be fun."

            Toki purses his lips in thought before directing a goofy grin their way. "Wells, if yous don'ts mind!"

            "Wouldn'ta asked if we did," Pickles replies, ignoring the fact that he hasn't asked Nathan how he feels about this at all. "Not t'night, but maybe tamorrow or somethin'. You hang around here a lot, right?"

            Toki shrugs, his expression going a little flat. Not that Nathan's watching through his hair, or anything. "Yeahs, mostlies here, sometimes I goes down to's the clinic what's for the kitty cats, but mostlies... right arounds here."

            "Sounds good. Right, Nate?"

            Pickles elbows him again and this time Nathan _almost_ shoves him, knowing full well he could knock him down, but Toki is watching them and he guesses since he might be a potential guitarist, Nathan should show that he's not an asshole. " _Right_ ," he grinds out between his teeth, which is as close to not-an-asshole as he can get with no sleep and Pickles forcing him to be social.

            "Nate's a lil' grumpy 'cos he missed naptime," Pickles shrugs. "Once I know how many fuckin' graveyard shifts I'm gettin' landed with, I'll holler for ya."

            "Okays! I gots to goes now," Toki says, bouncing on his feet again, "Buts I'll be's around!"

            "You got it, Fender bender."

            Nathan waits until Toki's strolled off, looking seriously better off than he did coming out of the coffee shop, and then he stands and stares Pickles down.

            "He said he wasn't any good."

            "Yeah," Pickles agrees, sucking on his cigarette.

            "Why would we want him in our band."

            "Dude, Nate - it ain't about whether or not he's any _good_." Pickles flicks his cigarette in the direction of the coffeeshop. "This is about makin' Sweden look like an asshole. Sittin' there with his one fuckin' coffee a day, thinkin' bein' famous in Scandinavia gets him fuckin' perks in _America_ , fu-uh-uh-uhk him, man!"

            Nathan knows that Pickles has a thing about bullies. He's not sure why - probably something about being fucked with when he was a kid, before he ran away and became a semi-famous rockstar for like two years in the eighties - but Nathan can appreciate it anyway. He got fucked with when he was a kid, too.

            From the way Toki had acted, he probably can appreciate it too.

            When Nathan heads back to work some five minutes later, his break almost up, he sees Sweden staring at him from over the rim of his sunglasses. He's trying to be discreet and failing. He's not the corpse in the window any more; he's the asshole celebrity from Europe who shut down a fan so hard that _Pickles_ had to pick up the slack.

            Nathan bares his teeth in a menace of a smile at him and pulls on his apron.

            Seriously, fuck that douchebag.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISNT PERFECT but it'll do bc otherwise i would have to wait even longer to put chapter 2 out lmao
> 
> ACTUAL MUSIC AND SHIT might happen next chapter. MAYBE MURDERFACE AND SKWISGAAR will actually have names or something too

            The funniest part about Pickles getting a monstrous dick spraypainted on his car is that it happens during an after-work meeting with Ofdensen where he specifically _told_ them that there was a graffiti vandal on the loose. It was his number one priority in the meeting; letting them know that Paul Blart was hanging around on purpose, trying to catch whatever dumbass kid was tagging the walls around the complex, and that there would be security cameras installed in the lot sometime in the next couple of weeks.

            They'd pretty much blown the warnings off until Ofdensen had let them all go - he always gives Pickles a _look_ , but because he's Nathan's ride, he usually gets to stick around for the boring management shit - and they'd walked out into the lot to find Pickles' car, parked under the glowing orange streetlamp, with a gigantic, throbbing cock spraypainted in black across the entire passenger side.

            Nathan had almost laughed. You know, until Pickles flipped himself off the handles and into shit-fuck crazy mode.

            "Are you _motherfucking kidding me right now_!" Pickles screams, kicking the shit out of the door where the balls are painted. Nathan just _knows_ this is going to lead to some fucked up dream imagery later on.

            Ofdensen is staring at them from the doors and Nathan knows they should probably shut the fuck up, but there's a giant dick spraypainted on their ride and Pickles is flipping his shit - there's no turning him off.

            "I cant _fucking_ believe this! What the _fuck_!"

            "Shut the fuck up," Nathan rumbles. "It's not that bad."

            " _Not_ that _bad_?!" Pickles shrieks, voice cracking on high notes that he hasn't reached since the mid-eighties. "The _fuck_ are you _talkin' about_! It's a giant _fuckin' cock on my car_! I gotta _drive this thing_! _It's that bad_!"

            ...Yeah, okay. It _is_ pretty fucking bad. Like, it's a gargantuan goddamn dick sprayed across two fucking doors. The balls are super fucking hairy and there are _veins_. It's kind of fucked up how much work went into it. Nathan is sickly impressed by the artistry. This shit took dedication.

            He's still not about to put his ass in the passenger seat of the cockmobile. He's got a reputation to keep.

            Pickles kicks the door a couple of times, snarling obscenities and practically frothing at the mouth. Nathan knows he likes his car, piece of shit that it is, but _Jesus_. It's not like he can't just buy some spray paint and fix it.

            "I'm sick of this fuckin' place," Pickles growls, slumping his arms against the roof of his car. "God damn it."

            "Just get some spray paint."

            "It'll look fuckin' _awful_ , fuuuuck, man! I don't wanna have ta drive this shit around until I can get some goddamn paint!"

            Nathan shrugs his shoulders and jams his hands into his pockets. He'd been thinking about hanging out at Pickles' place tonight, but he's getting the feeling that Pickles isn't going to be much for company, and his place is walking distance away, so... "Go to Walmart, dude. It'll be whatever, alright?" He tilts his head in the direction of his apartment. "I gotta go put some words down."

            "If you write any goddamn songs about my car an' it gettin' fuckin' _vandalized_ , I'm gonna shove my boot so far up your ass -"

            "I don't write songs about dicks, motherfucker."

            Of course he says that, but even as he leaves the lot he can't help but think up a few lines that would sound pretty great if he could get the right rhythm. But, since there's no way to make _Cockmobile_ into an actual song that would go on an actual death metal album, he goes ahead and forcibly forgets all of it. Pickles would kill him, even if they were just filler lines or a joke or something.

            He spends a few minutes of his walk trying to figure out exactly how long he has to wait before he gets to make fun of the dick on Pickles' car. He's not exactly paying attention to the area around him - after all, he's intimidating enough that nobody would want to fuck with him - but he does briefly eye anyone else he sees on the streets. It's not _really_ late, but anyone wandering around past eleven around here is nobody Nathan wants to deal with.

            Nathan almost doesn't see Toki hunkered down across the street; when he _does_ notice him, he almost doesn't recognize him under the harsh streetlamps.

            He's sitting on a beat up kit bag at the bus stop, hat rolled in his hands and his eyes planted firmly on the cement. Nathan cuts across the street, single-minded focus on the sag of Toki's shoulders and the lack of his guitar case, which is the only thing Nathan's really sure he owns at this point. It isn't until he's standing there in front of him that Nathan realizes he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, or what he's going to say.

            Toki must see his boots first because he looks up abruptly, like he's expecting a cop. He blinks a few times under the yellow lights and Nathan notices his mustache is trimmed down a lot shorter than it used to be.

            "Oh," Toki breathes, surprise and preemptive rejection written across his face.

            "Uh," Nathan says. Hr clears his throat. He has no idea what he's doing here. "Buses stop running at ten," he ends up saying, like an idiot.

            "Yeahs," Toki sighs. "Believes me, I knows."

            "Oh." Nathan fumbles for something to say. "...Where's you're guitar?"

            Toki looks at the ground again, more fed up now than upset. Nathan thinks maybe he should go - he's talked to this kid twice, he doesn't really know him and this is probably a personal thing that he doesn't really need to know about or even _care_ about - but then Toki sighs and says, "Somes jerksoff brokes the necks. I wasn'ts evens playings it louds or anythings."

            "What?" Nathan jerks his head like he might catch he douchebag responsible lurking around, feeling justifiably angry for the kid. Who the fuck breaks a guy's guitar? "The fuck are they?"

            Toki shrugs. "Backs ats the shelters, probskilly."

            _Oh_. "Oh." Well... shit. "Uh. That sucks. ...What about your fu manchu?"

            Toki _almost_ stands up at that, then sighs and slumps. "In Norways, we treats others with respects," he says, like he's ignoring Nathan's question. "I stays in Oslo for eight months, in shelters and laters, whens my boss gives me his spares room, I stays there. He helps me gets my guitars and a jobs on a boats comings here, ands I thinks I gots confused, because I gets here and nobodies ams hiring, and the shelters ams fulls of totals fuckings assholes who ams thinks its funnies to bullies the dumbs Norski because my English amn'ts so goods, and this place fucking _sucks_."

            Nathan's not exactly sure how that answers his question, but he's pretty sure it's related, so he lets it go and instead says, "Yeah, uh. That's the... American way."

            "The Ameriksan ways _sucks_ ," Toki repeats emphatically.

            Nathan hesitates. "So... uh... Are you... gonna just stay here until the bus shows up? Or... what?"

            "There ams nowheres else," Toki says. "I thinks I mights justs let myselfs get deported backs to Norways. At leasts I speaks the language."

            Nathan looks at Toki's frustrated expression and his hunched shoulders and the way he looks at the street, like he wants to punch it right in the dick, and he scowls because his big dumb emotions are doing big dumb things, like making him feel sympathy and shit.

            Awww, _fuck_.

            "I, uh. Have a couch," he says, unable to help himself. "If you want."

            Toki looks up at him, blinking dumbly until Nathan's discomfort makes him babble on. "It's dumb to stay out here," he says, like a complete moron, "And anyway, like. I'm already going that way, and it's - you're, uh. Supposed to come play for Pickles and me, so we can see if you're any good, so... uhhhh... yeah."

            Toki's expression is completely confusing and hard for Nathan to read - he's usually really good at body language and expressions, since he's always relied more on them than actual speech, but Toki's throwing him for a loop.

            "I... have coffee," he adds, because he's only ever seen Toki around Duncan Hills, but he's never bought coffee, so that's stupid. "That was stupid, no, I have, like, fucking hot water. And food. And a couch. Like I said. Uh."

            He gets so fucking tongue-tied when he thinks silence is getting awkward - and when is silence _not_ awkward? - and he has to chew on his tongue to keep himself from saying more stupid shit to this kid he doesn't know.

            Toki's expression is still a mystery, but slowly he starts to smile. "Ares you sures?" he asks. Nathan nods once, unwilling to open his mouth and make more of an ass of himself. "That's nice ofs you. I..."

            Toki trails off, looking uncertain, so Nathan shrugs and says, "It's whatever. C'mon." He stands there for a minute while Toki waffles, and then he holds out his hand and Toki takes it, climbing to his feet with barely any pulling on Nathan's part. "It's not far," he says. "And, uh... You know."

            Toki has no way of knowing, but he nods anyway, hiking his bag strap over his shoulder. Nathan stands awkwardly for a second too long before jerking his thumb over his shoulder and leading the way back across the street. Toki doesn't say much and he stays behind by a step and a half, and since silence is always awkward, Nathan ends up telling him about Pickles' car. By the time they reach Nathan's apartment building, he's managed to get Toki to keep pace with him while he talks about Pickles' temper tantrums and the hideous dick and all that shit. He doesn't offer much conversation, but Nathan doesn't care. He's always been good at talking to himself around other people.

            Nathan remembers that his place looks like a warzone right when he's unlocking the door, but there's not much to do for it so he doesn't apologize for the laundry and cans and empty takeout boxes strewn across every available surface. Toki doesn't seem to care, anyway; he drops his bag right next to the door and Nathan waffles for a second before asking, "You, uh, want a beer or something?"

            Toki chews on his lower lip. "I ams only twenties."

            "You're from Europe," Nathan replies, opening the fridge to look for whatever he's got left. "It doesn't count."

            "Well... If yous don'ts minds, then sure."

            Toki hesitantly moves forward, finally coming to stand awkwardly in the kitchenette like he doesn't want to touch anything for fear of getting yelled at. Nathan pulls out a couple cans of the cheap shit and hands one over to his surprise houseguest, watching Toki stare at it before cracking it open and pounding it back.

            Well, shit; if that's how they're doing it, Nathan can definitely play that game. He matches Toki until he's down to the dregs.

            "Sorries," Toki apologizes, "It's beens a shitty days."

            "I got you," Nathan says, because what else is there to say to that? He swallows the last of his beer and crushes the can like a stress ball before tossing it on top of his full trash can. "I got more, if you want."

            "Yes, _please_."

            Toki's so sincere in his need to drink that Nathan can't help but appreciate it, pulling out the rest of the cans and leading the way to the couch. If he's going to drink with a strange Norwegian kid, he's going to get comfortable first.

            Toki follows like a stray cat lured by wet food, waiting until Nathan sits before finding his place against the other end of the couch. He doesn't slam down his next beer; instead, he takes his time with it, more interested in the shows Nathan's flipping through than the beer. It's a good silence - the kind that's easy to forget, filled with just enough background noise to keep it mellow. Nathan's not usually much for peaceful, but this isn't so bad.

            "Whats am... Pickle - what's ams he going to do abouts the paints?"

            Nathan shrugs. "Probably bitch about it until someone offers to fix it for free. Either that or he knows a guy." Considering how pissed off he'd been when Nathan left him, though, it's entirely likely Pickles drove the thing over a cliff in a rage. He hopes that's not the case, but Nathan's sure as shit not getting into that car until it stops being the fucking cockwagon.

            "That's too's bads for hims." Toki sounds about as sincere as Nathan usually does, but that's not really a bad thing right now.

            "I should call him," Nathan mutters, realizing it sounds kind of lame too late to take it back, but Toki doesn't say shit about it. He just drinks and watches UFC with grotesque interest. Nathan wonders if Norway has wrestling like they do in the states, or if it's all the boring kind. He doesn't ask.

            It takes another beer before Nathan feels up to doing some minor work on the Skinwalker track he's been playing with on his computer. Toki looks pleasantly buzzed so Nathan drops the remote next to him before heading to the table, sitting down in front of his bruised and busted up laptop. Considering the shitty programs he deals with to try and put even the most basic fucking songs together, it's a miracle they have anything to work with at all. He would get a new laptop, but that's money that he doesn't have to spend.

            Every time he plays the track, he winds up stopping it almost immediately, tweaking levels and trying to make the guitar loops he has to work with... well, _work_. It sucks, though. They're shit. He's used them in two songs now and it sounds terrible in both of them - even when they _fit_ , Nathan remembers who recorded them and gets angry about it all over again.

            He's so engrossed in picking apart every piece of the song that he doesn't realize Toki's come up next to him until he leans back in frustration and pushes his headphones down around his neck. He doesn't _jump_ , but still Toki shifts backwards on his feet and mumbles an apology that he's not sure he needs to make.

            There's not much to do about it other than ask, "You, uh... wanna listen?"

            Toki nods like there's nothing else he'd want to do, and Nathan feels compelled to let him. He guesses it makes sense; he's supposed to play with them, so he might as well know what they're looking for.

            He hands over the chunky headphones and Toki slips them over his ears, clutching them to his ears as he sits at the extra table. Nathan hesitates only a moment before hitting play, incredibly aware of how unfinished the song is. He has to let someone hear it eventually, he guesses. He usually waits until he literally can't do shit without outside opinions, though.

            At first, he can't tell what Toki's thinking. His lips are pursed and it doesn't seem like he likes it, but then Nathan sees his fingers twitching against his knees, and soon enough Toki's head starts nodding along like he's agreeing with whatever the music's saying to him.

            He laughs abruptly halfway through the track, then yanks the headphones down around his neck. Nathan can hear the guitar riff and the drums and his own shitty voice echoing out. It takes all of his willpower not to go in and delete the thing right there.

            "Sorries!" Toki nearly shouts, "I didn'ts means to laughs, I justs-"

            "It's shit," Nathan says, slamming down on the spacebar. "I know.

            " _No_ ," Toki insists vehemently, "It's nots. You justs has funny fillers lyrics."

            "Oh." Wait. "What?"

            "The parts abouts Pickle ins the hairs metal days."

            "Ooooh." Right. Shit. Nathan stares at Toki. "...Pickles is usually the only one who understands what the fuck I'm saying."

            Toki stares back at him, then ducks his head and scrubs a hand behind his ear, fidgeting on the seat. "Wells. I... The parts what ams nots fillers ams goods. The guitars ams... goods."

            Nathan struggles to push past the fact that there's someone else who actually understands his vocals, which is a mindfuck, and goes for another beer to help. "They aren't right," he says. "It's just all I have to work with right now."

            "Yeahs... Nots the rights sounds, ja? Doesn'ts match with whats you ams saying, or whats the drums ams like. The bass ams okays, though."

            "It'd be better with an actual bassist, but it works. Yeah. It's okay."

            "Ams the drums all Pickle?"

            Nathan shrugs his shoulders. "Yeah. The only part I actually like. You want another beer?"

            "Sures."

            Nathan picks up two of the remaining cans and wanders back as Toki says, "He plays reallies fasts."

            "Just gotta keep up with him and it's good."

            Toki sips at his beer. "Cans I listens again?"

            "Oh. Uh. Sure." Nathan adjusts the player. "Just hit space whenever," he says, and then he goes back to chill on the couch. He refuses to hover a second time around, fixing his gaze on the television instead of trying to read Toki's expression as he listens to the track in its entirety. It's not done yet. He wants another two minutes to it, but they don't have a solo to work in so there's nothing to do. He can't worry about it right now, anyway.

            Eventually, Toki comes back to the couch, standing awkwardly in front of Nathan and shifting from foot to foot. He has a weird look on his face. Nathan doesn't know if he likes how hard it is to read Toki's expressions.

            "I wants to plays in your bands," Toki blurts out after the awkward silence stretches. "I don'ts knows if I ams any goods, or if I ams fasts enough, but I - I wants to plays for yous."

            "Uhhhh. Well." Nathan crunches the can in his hand slowly, a little uncomfortable by the weird earnestness in Toki's voice and expression. "Then. Okay. Good. Figure out how to keep up, I guess."

            It sounds so easy when he says it, but he knows it isn't; not without a guitar and practice. But Toki just nods, like it _is_ that easy, looking really serious about it.

            "Uh... Anyway, if you... want, you can use my shower. Or the washer, or... whatever you want. I think there's some shit in the freezer if you're hungry."

            Look. Nathan isn't _good_ at that whole "earnesty" bullshit.

            "Thanks you," Toki says. He doesn't move right away, though, looking like he wants to say more. Then, he mumbles something about the shower and shuffles to his bag.

            Nathan texts Pickles about his sudden houseguest when Toki disappears into the bathroom, but he doesn't get a response. It figures. He's probably busy breaking shit or making late night calls to try and get his shit taken care of. Nathan feels a little bad for not... helping him out, but seriously. He knows better than to get in that fucker's way when he's pissed. Besides, what the fuck could he offer in that situation, other than an utter lack of moral support?

            If Pickles still hasn't figured it out, Nathan will help him after work. The sooner it's taken care of, the sooner things can go back to normal, he guesses.

            Somewhere between the beer and the late shift and the fact that he hasn't slept more than a handful of hours in the last week, Nathan ends up passing out on the couch before Toki ever gets out of the bathroom. It's not a great sleep, with his head lolled back on the sofa and his left leg getting awful circulation, pinned by his right leg against the edge of the coffee table, but it's good enough that when Toki gently nudges him with a foot, he only manages to open his eyes a fraction of a centimeter. He's not sure if he's still dreaming or not when he mutters, "Take the bed, whatever."

            Toki looks briefly hesitant and then says something in another language (or maybe it's English and Nathan's just too tired to decipher his accent) and leaves him alone.

            He doesn't fall asleep right away; for a few minutes, he stares blankly at the news playing on the television, only absorbing the colors of the images instead of their importance or what they even are. He's not even sure when he falls asleep again, since everything feels like it's in his head. The dreams he has are prophetic as he plays through them, but when he wakes up, all he can remember is the vague feeling of importance. The actual dream falls away too fast to even grab his journal.

            It's five-fifty and he has work at six-thirty, the last of his early shifts for the week, so he rushes through a shower and doesn't wash his hair, because nothing on this Earth could make drying that shit take less than half an hour with a blowdrier and a clean towel. He notices that Toki hung everything back up where it was, the same way he notices the empties in the overflowing trash can and the completely wrapped up lump of human taking up his bed. Other than some stray brown hair, Toki's completely hidden.

            Nathan debates waking him up, since it'll probably be weird to wake up in some stranger's place without them around, but he's got fifteen minutes to walk to work so he decides against it, scribbling a note on a piece of paper and sticking it to the bathroom door before grabbing his shit and going. The only thing Nathan really prides himself on when it comes to work is that he _tries_ to show up on time. Whether or not he _does_ isn't his problem.

            He jogs the last block and gets there five minutes early. The parking lot is starting to fill up with people coming to work and other people coming to bother the people who're working, but even with the extra cars, it's hard to miss Pickles standing there next to his beat up piece of shit. It's _especially_ hard to miss him with the flagpole Swedish guitarist talking to him.

            There's no hesitation in his approach - Pickles has his arms crossed, but it's the Swede who's leaning back, just a little, like the conversation is a problem. He gets about three cars down before he's spotted; with a casual hand through his blonde hair, the guy easily separates from the conversation and heads off towards the other side of the lot, away from Duncan Hills and the convenience store.

            "Hey," Nathan says. He tilts his chin in the absconding guitarist's direction. "What'd he want?"

            "Man, I dunno," Pickles says, in the exact voice he uses whenever he _does_ know, but he doesn't want to explain it. "Came over complimentin' me fer the touchups. Guess he's like, got a boner fer art or somethin'."

            Nathan looks and sees exactly what Pickles is referring to. The ugly ass dick tagged across his car is now covered in silver and purple, the airbrushed S'N'B logo _almost_ taking the exact shape of the dick without it being too obvious. It's pretty awful, but in that awesome 80's way that reminds you that sometimes hideous shit is sick.

            "Wow," Nathan says.

            "Took it inta my own hands, no thanks to _you_ ," Pickles replies, stepping deliberately on Nathan's foot to get his attention back. "Saw your text, though, so I guess you were busy or whatever."

            "Yeah," he says, because what else is he supposed to say? "He was passed out when I left."

            Pickles makes a face. "Dude, ya just left some stranger in your place? That's a bad idea."

            "What's he gonna do, steal my shitty laptop and drink all my beer?"

            " _Maybe_."

            When Nathan starts heading for Duncan Hills, Pickles keeps pace - Nathan's not sure if he's even got work today. Did he stay in the parking lot all night? Shit. He doesn't want to know. Man, he's a bad friend. "It'll be fine."

            "Until you come back and all your shit's gone," Pickles grumbles, but he lets it go. Neither of them are really convinced that the scrawny kid from Norway with the kicked-puppy expression is going to fuck him over - at least, that's what Nathan's assuming, because otherwise, Pickles is just gearing up to tell him _I told ya so_ , and that shit always gets on his nerves.

            Work is primarily a pain in the ass, but not particularly eventful. Nathan can't remember if Toki told him the blonde Swede's name; when he comes in at noon and orders his usual, Nathan just goes with Lestat, even though it's starting to not feel exactly right. He wants to bug him - rattle the table he's sitting at, interrogate him about Pickles. You know, for fun. He doesn't, of course, because he cares more about his income than about being a bully, even though sometimes being a bully is _awesome_ , and when Pickles swings by for lunch, Nathan doesn't mention Lestat's casual head-tilt that follows them out of the store.

            Pickles isn't working today. He still hangs around like he is, but Nathan's pretty sure that's because he's bored of being alone after last night and needs socialization. Nathan's seen it before in cats, and some dogs too, especially older ones that don't play much any more. He doesn't say shit, obviously, because nobody wants to be compared to an animal unless they're fucking.

            The point is, after lunch, Pickles disappears again with the vague half-promise to pick him up at the end of his shift, and Nathan has to weather the mid-afternoon shift with two of his coworkers who are apparently best fucking friends outside of work for how they talk to each other. Nathan spends it mostly ignoring them. Of course, when the Paul Blart motherfucker wanders by the window, he tunes back into their conversation to hear them talking shit about the guy because shit-talk is always good to listen to. Apparently, he's about as subtle as a brick trying to hit on women, and he stares into windows like everything inside is for sale, even the employees. As long as he gets the asshole who tagged Pickles' car, though, Nathan doesn't give a shit _who_ he stares at.

            End of shift comes just after three and sure enough, Pickles is waiting for him in the lot by his shitty spraypainted car. "Don't make that face," Pickles says as Nathan approaches, leaning on the roof of the car. "At least it ain't a gigantic, veiny cock."

            "Eugh. Don't remind me. The fuck did you do all day?"

            They climb in and Pickles takes them out of park before he says, "I got a guitar cheap of some guy on Craigslist. Yanno, you said Toki's got busted, an' since we wanna try _playin'_ with the kid, assumin' he hasn't cleaned your place out an' left for Norway or whatever, I figured I'd pick it up."

            "We already _have_ a guitar."

            "No, _I_ have a guitar, and I _don't_ lend it out."

            Nathan rolls his eyes even though it's a pretty nice thing to do for someone they literally don't know at all. He really hopes Toki hasn't disappeared with all his shit, now more than ever. "So you want to see if he's down to play?"

            "I mean, what else is he gonna do, sit around your apartment? Fuck yeah, I wanna see if he'll play!"

            Pickles doesn't bother worrying about parking, pulling up outside Nathan's apartment building as though there weren't signs telling him not to do exactly that. They're not going to be here long, anyway. Hopefully. Ugh. Nathan didn't really think this shit through when he left for work.

            The door isn't locked, which is... not great, but Nathan doesn't remember locking it so, there's that. Pickles gives him a _look_ , with one raised eyebrow that's just a hint of how smug he _wants_ to be, but Nathan ignores it and busts through the door like he owns the place. Because, you know. He does.

            Toki's still a lump on the bed, but Pickles is too busy staring at his apartment to give Nathan shit about the sleeping arrangements. "Holy shit, dude," he says, and Nathan has to agree.

            The place is fucking spotless - well, there's like, three bags of garbage lined up by the kitchenette counter, but that's probably because all the empties, the leftover boxes and bags have been picked up. There's a lot more room than Nathan remembered there being just hours before. His laundry is actually _in_ his hamper. He... forgot he had a hamper.

            "I was wrong," Pickles says.

            "Yeah," Nathan agrees, too surprised to give him shit for it. It's... weird. "This is weird, right?"

            "I dunno. Uh. Should we..."

            Pickles gestures at the bed uncertainly and Nathan stares at the lump for a bit. "Yeah," he says finally. "Grab a beer or whatever if you want."

            After all, it's _his_ apartment and _his_... guest, or whatever, so that makes it his responsibility to get the kid up. Which is what he intends to do when he walks over to the bed and stares down at Toki, who's got one of Nathan's pillows wrapped tight in his arms like a stuffed animal with a dumb smile on his face. It takes Nathan a second to gear himself up, and then he uses his knee to shake the mattress a little. "Toki," he says. He figures it's okay to start using his name now. The guy picked up for him, and all.

            Toki rolls over and partially unburies himself from the comforter, and when Nathan calls his name and kicks the mattress again, his eyes crack open and catch Nathan's. His eyes are... uh. Really blue.

            "Did you pick up the trash?" he asks, because it's still entirely likely that some weirdo snuck in here and did it all while Toki was asleep.

            "Hva medsøppel?" Toki mutters, still clutching Nathan's pillow.

            "Uh. What?"

            "Hva - _oh_!"

            Toki sits up so fast Nathan almost gets whiplash watching him, his hair a tangled mess. "Sorries, I forgots, I dids the pickings up, I meants to takes it outs but I fell asleeps, sorries!"

            Nathan's a little confused that Toki is seriously apologizing. "You picked up," he says, unsure.

            "I cans takes the bags out," Toki continues, not listening. He sits up and their knees almost bump together as he tries to finger-comb his hair. He... isn't wearing a shirt. Nathan abruptly feels out of shape. "I didn'ts means to stays so longs."

            "Dude, if you're the kinda houseguest who cleans, you can stay here as long as ya want," Pickles calls from the kitchenette. Toki almost jolts out of bed, but Nathan's kind of in his way so he sits back down hard on the mattress.

            "Pickles is here," Nathan says, because he is a complete fucking idiot and that's the first thing out of his dumb mouth. Toki looks unimpressed and Pickles just laughs at him, which is awesome. "Uhhh. I should be thanking you, anyway. For the garbage. You didn't... need to do that."

            "I... guess nots," Toki says slowly. "I just thoughts it woulds... be a goods ideas. To helps outs, since you helped me."

            Nathan realizes he hasn't moved and Toki still can't get up and he just barely manages to not trip over his feet as he moves back. "Well... thanks." And now Toki's standing and he's still really in shape and that's not the thing Nathan wants to be noticing right now, so he turns and faces down Pickles' expression of complete schadenfreude. Ugh.

            "We were thinkin' of playin' a lil' bit," Pickles says once Toki's standing. "You think you wanna join?"

            "Umm, ja, sures!" Toki pauses by Nathan's side to glance up at him, kind of unsure. Nathan gets it.

            "We're parked in the red," he says, "So hurry up."

            Toki nods rapidly and hurries into the bathroom. Nathan tries not to watch him go because Pickles would definitely give him shit for it. Pickles is unabashedly watching, though, and he whistles low when Toki closes the door. "That's _some_ fuckin' guitarist we picked."

            "We haven't picked him yet," Nathan replies.

            "We almost _have_ ta, since nobody else is gonna keep this place clean. Ya think I can borrow him? Wonder if he does laundry..."

            "He's just trying to be nice," Nathan says. "He's not a maid and he isn't our guitarist yet."

            " _Yet_."

            Pickles looks pleased with himself, like an asshole, but Nathan can't exactly tell him he's _wrong_. After all, Toki wants to play with them. He wants to be... _good enough_ for them, if Nathan's right and Toki's late night confession wasn't something he'd dreamed. If he's _that_ eager and _that_ willing, even after listening to the bullshit Nathan's been working on, then there's no reason to assume he's not going to make the cut. And even if he doesn't - well, it's not like they have many options. Besides. Nathan's pretty sure he'd take a shitty guitar player with a good attitude than a good guitar player with a shitty attitude. He learned his lesson the last time, and he isn't about to make the same mistake twice.


End file.
